


Bedside Manner

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Kink, M/M, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic





	Bedside Manner

"You're using _gloves_?" Chekov squeaks when he hears the telltale snap. 

"Do you know how many diseases there are on an average spacecraft, kid?" McCoy grumbles. The lube's a bit cold at first, and if the vaguely clinical nature of it all -- McCoy's office, the surgical lubricant, the gloves -- give Chekov a strange and sudden thrill, well he'll just be taking that to his grave, spasiba i pazhalusta. 

"You wash your hands regularly, yes?"

"Precautions," McCoy replies simply, rubbing around and around Chekov's hole with his thumb without entering. Chekov considers telling him that he's ready, and then thinks better of it. He _likes_ this gentle massage as his muscles clench and release and his dick gets impossibly harder, nestled between McCoy's thighs. McCoy had wheeled a stool in before they started, the same stool he sits on as he conducts routine exams, and using it as a place to rest his upper body as he lies over McCoy's lap only furthers the fantasy Chekov's spinning, the idea of being _examined_ by the doctor. 

"Open," McCoy murmurs, that calm, professional tone never giving way to something more impassioned, more _affected_. Chekov should be bothered, but he's not. He knows McCoy wants him, has seen it countless times in the doctor's face, and now, having that face hidden from him only makes it hotter. He bears down as McCoy gently inserts a gloved index finger, wiggling it a little to create room, and Chekov moans softly into the stool. 

McCoy's thumb strokes the skin just above his hole as his finger crooks a little, rubbing Chekov's prostate only gently at first. He whimpers and wriggles a little, but McCoy stops him with a hand on the lower back. He stills and moans from deeper in his chest, only tipping his hips up and putting more weight on his forearms as McCoy works a second finger in. McCoy's thighs are squeezing his dick tightly enough that he can't quite frot between them, but he's leaking on McCoy's chair, and he's sure McCoy's pants are going to be stained after this. He hopes so.

"Three, now," McCoy says in that same professional tone, and it strikes Chekov that the only time McCoy has bedside manner is when he's _not_ practicing medicine. He'd laugh, except that all three fingers start stretching and prodding and _pushing_ all at once and he suddenly can't stop whimpering, moaning, begging without the use of words. And McCoy doesn't _stop_, doesn't give Chekov a moment for mercy, oh no, he just keeps rubbing and pushing and massing Chekov's prostate relentlessly and just when Chekov thinks he's going to break McCoy moves one leg half a centimeter away from the other and he's humping the doctor's lap, crying out, coming in a puddle on McCoy's office chair. There's a moment's pause, a silent interval when McCoy's fingers still and Chekov whimpers pathetically and feels his chest flood with shame, and then McCoy pulls out, tosses the glove, pulls Chekov up into his lap and holds him close. 

"I'm sorry... I did not... I'm sorry you did not fuck me," Chekov mumbles, his face against McCoy's neck. 

"Ah, don't worry sweetheart," McCoy says, a laugh and a hint of the sinister in his tone all at once. "I will."


End file.
